‘Hah!’ Meryfeld exclaimed. ‘We thought you were not coming. Vale did not arrive, either, so we assumed that you must have received summonses from patients. Come in, come in.’
His home was airy and comfortable, and smelled of the home-made remedies he liked to dispense. Most were ineffectual, and comprised such innocuous ingredients as honey, mint and angelica, but he still charged a fortune for them. Bartholomew was always amazed when one worked, and could only suppose that it was the patient’s faith in what he was swallowing that had effected the cure; there was a tendency amongst laymen to believe that the more expensive the remedy, the more likely it was to do what it promised.
William Rougham, portly, smug and arrogant, was reclining in Meryfeld’s best chair. He deplored the fact that Bartholomew had trained with an Arab physician, and regarded his methods as controversial and dangerous. In turn, Bartholomew despised Rougham’s traditionalism and resistance to change. But they had reached a truce over the years, and although they would never be friends, there was no longer open hostility in their relationship.
John Gyseburne was by the hearth. He was an austere, long-haired, unsmiling man in his fifties, who was of the firm belief that the only reliable diagnostic weapon was the inspection of urine. He always had a flask to hand, and rarely conducted consultations without requesting a sample; Bartholomew had even heard him demand one from a patient with a grazed knee. Despite this, Bartholomew had come to respect his opinions, and felt there was much to be learned from him.
The last of the gathering was Will Holm. Bartholomew had been delighted when the surgeon had first arrived, because Cambridge’s last sawbones had retired, and there had been no one, other than Bartholomew himself, to suture wounds, draw teeth or amputate damaged limbs. Unfortunately, it had not taken him long to learn that Holm was alarmingly hesitant, and while caution was admirable in one sense – his predecessor had forged ahead when it would have been kinder to let well alone – it was frustrating in another. Patients had died whom Bartholomew felt could have been saved. It was unusual for a mere surgeon to be included in a gathering of physicians, but Holm was a lofty sort of man who had taken his acceptance as an equal for granted. He was cleaner, better dressed and infintely more refined than most of his fellows, and Bartholomew was always under the impression that he considered himself a cut above not just other barber-surgeons but above physicians, too.
‘You are late,’ Holm said brusquely, draining the contents of his goblet and setting it on a table. He was a tall, astonishingly handsome man with a luxurious mane of bright gold hair. ‘We were just about to leave.’
‘We were discussing Coslaye again,’ said Gyseburne, his tone rather more friendly than Holm’s. ‘We are still stunned by his recovery.’
‘I would not have opened his cranium,’ said Rougham. ‘Brains are easily damaged, and you might have hastened his end by drilling that hole in his head. I am surprised you dared do it.’
‘There was no choice,’ explained Bartholomew, wondering how much longer they would continue to debate this particular case. Trephining was an ancient, well-tested technique, and he failed to understand why they insisted on making so much of it. ‘Coslaye was bleeding inside his skull, and he would have died had we not relieved the pressure.’
‘He allowed me to examine his scar yesterday,’ said Gyseburne. ‘It has healed beautifully.’
‘Pity,’ murmured Holm. ‘He is one of those who opposes the Common Library. Still, the project proceeds apace regardless, and I am looking forward to seeing it opened next week. Dunning, my future father-in-law, has promised me a prominent role in the ceremony, and it is always good to be seen and admired by people who might be patients one day.’
‘A central repository for texts is a foolish notion,’ declared Rougham uncompromisingly. ‘Chancellor Tynkell should be ashamed of himself for coming up with it, and I have told him so.’
‘I do not know what all the fuss is about,’ said Meryfeld. ‘I learned everything I know from my father, and I have never felt the desire to expand on it by consulting dusty old tomes.’
‘Yes, and it shows,’ muttered Rougham snidely. He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Why did you come tonight? It is too late to begin an experiment now.’
‘It is,’ agreed Gyseburne with a yawn. ‘I wonder what happened to Vale. He did not mention previous appointments when I saw him earlier, and he told me he would be here.’
‘When was that?’ asked Bartholomew.
Gyseburne rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose it was last night. Like me, he had been busy with a tertian fever, and we met on our respective ways home. I heard you were similarly inconvenienced, Matthew. Weasenham saw you walking home after tending some hapless soul all night.’
‘Tertian fevers do seem to be more virulent this year,’ mused Rougham. ‘It must be something to do with the weather. But Vale must have been summoned again after you saw him, Gyseburne, because he missed College breakfast. I went to look for him, but his bed had not been slept in.’
‘He is dead,’ said Bartholomew, sorry when he saw the shock on his colleagues’ faces, especially Rougham’s – the two Gonville men had been friends. ‘That is why I did not join you this evening. I was inspecting his body after it was pulled from the pond in Newe Inn’s garden.’
‘He was perfectly healthy when I saw him last,’ said Rougham unsteadily. ‘Was he murdered?’
‘Probably,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘There was an arrow in his back, and Northwood and the London brothers were in the pool with him—’
‘Northwood?’ demanded Rougham. ‘What was Vale doing in company with that old rogue?’
‘He was not a rogue,’ countered Meryfeld sharply. ‘He was a very clever man.’
‘Let us not quarrel,’ said Gyseburne softly. ‘This is terrible news, and we should all go home quietly, and pray for the souls of these hapless men.’
The streets were quiet as the medici said their farewells, and it would not be long before the curfew bell sounded. The last of the Market Square traders were wending their way home, some on carts and others on foot. Friars and monks had completed vespers, and were already ensconced in their convents, Colleges or hostels. A few students roamed, obviously intent on breaking University rules and sampling the town’s taverns, but Michael’s beadles also prowled, ready to arrest and fine any lad caught out without a plausible excuse.
Gyseburne lived near the castle, so went north when the five medici parted company. Rougham went with him, saying he had a patient who had summoned him earlier, although Bartholomew was unimpressed that he had kept the person waiting while he drank wine and chatted with his friends. It left him walking south with Holm.
‘I thought I saw lamps in Newe Inn’s grounds last night,’ said Holm thoughtfully. ‘I live next door, as you know. But I assumed I was mistaken – Walkelate and his craftsmen are labouring frantically to finish the library by next week, and they often work late. However, they rarely venture into the garden, and I put the lights down to my imagination. It seems I should not have done.’
‘Have you seen them before?’
Holm nodded. ‘But Cholles Lane is not a salubrious part of town. The riverfolk and Isnard the bargeman live nearby, for a start, and they are desperate criminals. I shall move somewhere nicer when I am married to Dunning’s daughter.’
‘The riverfolk and Isnard are not criminals,’ objected Bartholomew. They had been his patients for years, and he was fond of them.
‘Oh, yes, they are. Isnard is almost certainly a smuggler, while the rest of that rabble poach and steal as the whim takes them. Then there are the murders that the Sheriff is investigating. If Isnard and the riverfolk are innocent of those, I will drink my own piss.’
‘You had better work up a thirst, then,’ said Bartholomew coolly, ‘because the riverfolk would never kill. Or smuggle.’
Holm sneered. ‘Shall we have a bet on it? Five marks?’
It was a colossal sum, and one Bartholomew did not have, but h
e found himself shaking hands to seal the wager anyway. He sincerely hoped his faith was not misplaced, especially in Isnard, who was hardly a model citizen.
‘I shall not need your money when I marry Julitta, because she comes with a big dowry,’ said Holm smugly. ‘But I am not averse to having more. Did I tell you how I met her? I was visiting my friend Walkelate in Newe Inn, admiring the progress he had made on his library, when Julitta and her father arrived. She fell in love the moment she saw me, being a woman of impeccable taste.’
‘I see.’ Bartholomew was not sure what else to say in the face of such unabashed conceit. ‘Have you been betrothed long?’
‘Ever since I realised how wealthy her father is,’ replied Holm with a smirk. ‘I rejected her at first, because I wanted to snare someone more worthy of me. But I made enquiries about Dunning’s assets, and decided she would do. The family is not particularly venerable, but it suits my purposes.’
‘And what about your family?’ Bartholomew was the last man to denigrate surgeons, but it was a lowly profession, and Julitta would certainly be his social superior.
‘I am related to the Holms of Norfolk,’ replied Holm haughtily. ‘We are a highly respected clan already, but I still intend to make the name known throughout the civilised world.’
‘How?’ asked Bartholomew, forbearing to say that he had never heard of the Holms of Norfolk.
‘I have not decided yet, although it will be easier when I have a wealthy wife. I shall be able to leave the cautery to you and concentrate on more interesting matters. Perhaps I shall invent a special paste for whitening teeth or develop a pill for gout.’
Bartholomew felt his spirits sink. He should have known that having a surgeon in Cambridge was too good to be true, even if it was one with mediocre skills.
‘The lamp fuel represents my best chance of fame, though,’ Holm went on. ‘And fortune, because whoever discovers it will be fabulously rich – everyone will want to buy some. I shall conduct my own experiments when I am married and can afford to buy the ingredients myself. Then there will be no need to share the profits with the rest of you.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘I imagine our colleagues will have something to say about that.’
‘They can say what they like: I shall not give them a penny.’ Holm was silent for a while, and so was Bartholomew, stunned by the bald promise of future betrayal. Eventually, the surgeon spoke again. ‘It is a pity about Vale. He was the best of all the physicians, and I wish it had been Gyseburne, Rougham or Meryfeld who had died. Or you, for that matter.’
Once again, Bartholomew could think of no reply to such a remark. He found himself beginning to dislike the man.
Suddenly, Holm smiled. ‘I love the tales of when you and the others first started experimenting with lamp fuel – when you almost blew yourselves up.’
Bartholomew winced. ‘We produced a substance that was explosive, very sticky and impossible to extinguish once it was alight. In the end, we had to bury it, to deprive it of air.’
‘Interesting,’ mused Holm. ‘Tell me more.’
‘None of us can remember what went in it – we had been to a wake, and had imbibed too liberally of our host’s claret. But thank God our minds are blank, because the stuff was akin to the “wildfire” mentioned in the battle accounts of the ancients, and—’
‘Wildfire is not used these days,’ interrupted Holm. ‘I was at the Battle of Poitiers, and while I heard plenty of bombards and ribauldequins being deployed, there was no wildfire.’
Bartholomew had been at Poitiers, too, because bad timing had put him there during his quest to find Matilde. It had been a dreadful experience, and still haunted his dreams. Thus he disliked discussing it, and was disinclined even to address the curious coincidence that Holm should have been on the field, too.
‘That is because wildfire is banned,’ he explained instead. ‘The Second Lateran Council declared it “too murderous” a weapon for war.’
Holm guffawed his disbelief. ‘But war is murderous! And I would have used it, had I had some in my arsenal at Poitiers. I did not enjoy being on the losing side.’
Bartholomew blinked, not sure he had understood correctly. ‘You fought for the French?’
Holm nodded blithely. ‘I thought a military campaign would be a good way to gain experience of wounds. Of course, most of the injuries were too severe to bother with, but I was pleased with an ear I managed to sew back on. I would have preferred to stay with the English army, of course, but the French offered me a lot more money.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that a larger salary should have been immaterial at such a time.
‘I understand you were there, too. Did you see the ribauldequins at work? Unfortunately, they produced so much smoke that I could not really tell how effective they were.’
‘I do not believe any of their missiles found a target. However, there were injuries galore when one exploded – all to its own crew.’ Bartholomew spoke quietly. The wounds had been horrific, even to a man inured to such sights, and he did not want to dwell on them so late at night. ‘They are evil devices, and I cannot imagine what was in the mind of whoever invented them.’
‘On the contrary,’ argued Holm, ‘their presence on the battlefield may mean an early capitulation by an enemy, thus saving lives. If the French had owned a few, loaded with some of that unquenchable substance you created, there would never have been a battle at Poitiers, because the Prince of Wales would have surrendered.’
‘I do not want to discuss this,’ said Bartholomew, the very notion of a ribauldequin that hurled wildfire bringing him out in a cold sweat. ‘It will give me nightmares.’
‘I wish you could recall how you made it,’ said Holm wistfully. ‘The formula would be worth a fortune to a military commander.’
‘No doubt,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But even if we could remember, we are physicians. We save lives: we do not invent ways to cut them short.’
‘You were not drunk that night,’ pressed Holm. ‘I wager you know what went in that pot.’
‘It was dark,’ said Bartholomew curtly. ‘And Rougham, Gyseburne and Meryfeld were hurling ingredients around without bothering to read the labels. Even if I could recall what was added, I would have no idea how much was used. The experiment is unrepeatable – and I thank God for it.’
Bartholomew parted from Holm near All-Saints-in-the-Jewry. He bade the surgeon goodnight, then paused for a moment outside the house in which Matilde had lived, hoping that thoughts of her would dispel the bad memories his conversation with Holm had awakened. They did, yet failed to make him any happier. He still loved her with a passion that was painful, and he wondered whether he was destined to feel the pangs of loss for the rest of his life.
To take his mind off it, he pondered the bodies that had been found in Newe Inn’s pond. Their discovery meant that there had been seven suspicious deaths in Cambridge, counting the three that Tulyet was investigating. Were they connected? He was inclined to believe not, partly because of what Michael had said – that Vale and the others were unlikely to have stumbled across smugglers in Newe Inn’s garden – but mostly because they had not had their throats cut.
So had the four scholars been together when they had died, or had someone brought their corpses to the pond to hide them? And if the former, what had they been doing? They had all liked experimenting – the brothers with paper, Vale with his universal cure-all, and Northwood with any kind of alchemy – but how could that be relevant? With a sigh, Bartholomew supposed that some of his questions might be answered when he examined them properly the following day.
He let his thoughts return to Holm, and was surprised by the intensity of the dislike he was beginning to feel for the man. He did not take against many people, but there was something deeply distasteful about the surgeon, something that went beyond his dubious medical skills, his repugnant attitude towards his fiancée, and the fact that he had sided against his countrymen in what had been a bitter and ter
rible battle. Then it occurred to him that he had known Holm for a good two months, but he had never found his faults objectionable before. Meeting Julitta had certainly had an impact!
He was still pondering the surgeon and his bride-to-be when he reached St Michael’s Lane, and it was then that the attack happened. Figures shot from the graveyard opposite and darted towards him. He stopped walking when he saw the unmistakable glint of steel, and peered into the darkness, trying to ascertain whether his assailants were men he knew, but all were cloaked and hooded. There were three of them, and they moved quickly to back him against a wall. Two held cudgels, while the shortest had a dagger.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, sounding a lot braver than he felt. ‘And what do you want?’
‘Tell us the formula, and we will give you a clean death,’ said the knifeman, the leader.
‘I cannot – we have not discovered it yet,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Lamp fuel is—’
‘We do not mean lamp fuel,’ snapped the leader. ‘We mean the other substance.’
‘What other substance?’ Bartholomew rummaged in the medical bag he always wore over his shoulder, and hauled out some childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him. He was rarely called on to help pregnant women, because that was the domain of midwives, but the forceps had served as a weapon more times than he cared to remember. He hated to imagine what Matilde would think if she ever discovered the use to which he usually put them.
‘The one that burns and cannot be doused.’
‘Holm?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing the night was not so dark and he could see his assailants’ faces. ‘I have already told you that I do not know. Now stop this ridiculous charade and—’
‘Oh, I think you do,’ hissed the leader. ‘And it is a valuable secret, so you will appreciate why we do not want you blathering to anyone else. It would not do for our enemies to have it.’
‘Enemies?’ asked Bartholomew, simultaneously alarmed and bemused. ‘What enemies?’
Murder By The Book (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 7
